The Black Stallion's Legacy
by ImperialGirl
Summary: The blood of the Black runs true in his descendant. Will it make him a champion? Or a killer?
1. Caveat Emptor

  
  


The Black Stallion's Legacy  
  


Author's Note: This is associated with an original story, sci-fi, and is set at a point in the near future, when thoroughbred horse racing has become even more an industry, with genetic engineering making breeding even more selective (though direct cloning has been banned under what was termed the Man o' War Act.) Sarah bred a horse, a filly named Star Voyager (see the movie "The Right Stuff" for where the name comes from) after badgering the money out of her ex-fiancé, show jumper and horse-dealer Matt Olivet. The filly did indeed turn out to be the champion Sarah hoped for. This story picks up the year Star is four. (All "cheap" prices for horses are adjusted for a projected inflationary rate. If they sound high, they won't twenty years from now.)  
  


Notes on this chapter: all mentioned horses are fictional, except Mr. Prospector. Alec Ramsay, the Black, Satan, Black Minx and Hopeful Farm belong to the estate of Walter Farley and are used without permission. The Keeneland September Yearling Sale belongs to itself.  
  


Chapter One

Caveat Emptor  
  


The Keeneland September Yearling Sale had been underway for two days, fourteen hours, forty minutes and thirty-eight seconds. Matthias Olivet knew this because he was now counting. The plush seat that had been so comfortable on the first day was now one step up from sitting on cold concrete, and there had to be some polite way to scratch the itch, gradually becoming unbearable, just at the small of his back, without the movement being misinterpreted as a bid. 

A slight movement to his left drew his attention, but it was only Sarah leaning a little farther forward in her seat. If his wife (after almost a year of marriage and eighteen years of courtship, he savored the sound of that word) was feeling the strain of the long sale, she wasn't showing it. It had been Sarah who'd wanted to arrive in Kentucky two days early, Sarah who'd had them up at the crack of dawn to walk the sale barns with other prospective buyers and trainers, and Sarah who'd had them in their seats in the sale room for every moment possible, even though the lot they were principally here for would not come up until the end of the sale. She thrived on the excitement of the auction-of the whole industry. Matt didn't, but it was almost worth the hours of tedium to see Sarah this animated again.

You'd think, he mused as a leggy bay filly was lead around the sales ring, that a Triple Crown winner would be enough. A Triple Crown-winning filly, no less, bred with no more science involved than Sarah's uncanny instinct and Matt's admittedly deep pockets. Star Voyager had been everything Sarah had wanted when she'd first pitched the plan to Matt-strong, fast, and with the courage of the classic horses like Man o' War. And for a while, it had seemed to be enough. Enough even that when he'd asked her again, almost five years after their first engagement ended, to marry him, he'd gotten a yes. With conditions-there were always conditions. So instead of riding at the two-hundred-horse show barn his father managed in the wealthy Virginia horse country, he was training as best he could at Lost Acres Farms in much-less-wealthy central Michigan. Sometimes he helped with Sarah's more advanced students. They weren't rich (even with Star's purses), but few who made their living with horses were, and they were happy. It should have been enough for anyone. He should have known Sarah better.

Her unrest had started after the Breeder's Cup, and Star's by-a-hair Classic victory over the four-year-old champion, her own half-brother Prospect Creek. Star was on her four-year-old campaign now, taking on her old rivals and older horses in the stakes and handicaps. School and fall weather were starting to keep Sarah's riding students away and her horses in the barn, and Matt's show season had ended without World Cup plans-unsurprising, given how much more time he'd spent at the track than on his jumpers. Sarah had begun searching the sale schedules, pointing out that their finances certainly allowed for the purchase of a new horse.

"It's not that I'm bored with Star," Sarah had said, after dropping the Keeneland catalog on his breakfast plate one morning. "Far from it. I'm making room for this year's Eclipse Award in the trophy room. But I've been browsing."

Matt, who'd just come in from morning feeding, had blinked. "I was thinking about finding you a horse, actually." He'd sat down and picked up the toast and the jar of Marmite, ignoring the catalog. "I have a line from my father on a nice Hanoverian colt. Four years old, and he's going to be big, the way you like them. You could even get back into the circuit."

"Matthias," and when the used that wheedling tone with his full name he always paid attention, "I have horses I ride. That's not what I'm talking about." She shoved the sale catalog at him again. "I've highlighted the best prospects. All yearlings, and all colts. If we get a good one, when he's done racing it might be interesting to do a home-bred cross."

"I thought that Star was a one-time deal." He took the cup of tea she offered him, with milk and sugar and no snide remarks about the English way of taking it, which meant she was in full persuasive mode. "You proving you could out-think the business breeders."

"I know, I know, and it really was, but what's one more?" She sat down across from him. "It isn't as if we don't have a trainer. It certainly isn't as if we don't have the money."

"We are putting up new fences, and getting new footing for the indoor ring," he pointed out. "Not that it's a huge chunk of Star's winnings." The Triple Crown carried with it a considerable bonus above the purse money. "But investing in another racehorse? You know that means training, equipment, travel, insurance, riders, you don't even know if Don is taking other horses-"

"After we gave him Star? He'll take a colt if we send him one." Sarah smiled at him, and he knew in spite of the calculated approach she was sincere. She always was, that was the problem, throwing herself heart and soul into whatever project she was involved in. Including, he had to admit, winning him over. "Come on, Matt, you love the track. You'll miss it when we retire Star." Her brow furrowed. "We'll probably have to next year anyway. Stakes entry fees are expensive, the handicappers are packing weight on her-Jaime says if she keeps winning they'll make him carry an anvil next year. Besides, think of the excitement, prepping a two-year-old, aiming for the Derby again . . . ."

He sighed. "You have me there, though I think it's more nostalgia. How many have men proposed while their horse was running in the Belmont?" For the first time he really looked at the sales catalog.

"And winning the Triple Crown in the process? My guess is none." She fiddled with her wedding band-he'd tried to persuade her to wear her emerald-cut diamond but she had pointed out that wasn't a good idea for someone who worked in a barn most of the day. "Look, we don'thave to buy a colt. If we go to the sale, we can set a top price, and if the ones I like go over then forget it. We can talk to your father about that Hanoverian." But he knew she didn't mean that. If they went to Keeneland, they'd be coming back with a horse.

Her voice in his ear startled him back to the present. "Two more hip numbers, and we get to the one I want," Sarah said, in the decorous whisper that was de rigeur at Keeneland. 

Matt ran his eyes down the list. The first four yearlings she'd marked had quickly raced past the one-and-a-half-million dollar price tag they'd set for themselves. He'd tried to nudge her in the direction of some of the fillies or the lower-end colts, but apparently Sarah had something specific in mind.

He found the highlighted hip number and his eyebrows shot up. "Hopeful Farm?"

She nodded, barely, not wanting to draw unwanted attention from the auctioneer. "By Victory Charm out of Black Raven by Faded Ebony. The damsire is by Satan, and he by the Black! Can you imagine owning some of that blood?"

Matt didn't reply. The colt's sire was equally impressive, with Mr. Prospector five generations back on one side and six on the other. The colt was listed as dark brown or bay, no surprise there, and he'd be willing to bet any horse with that breeding would be big-not tall and long-shouldered like Star, but compact, with powerful haunches and a heavy neck. The weight could be a blessing or a curse, but with the blood of Satan, who had been great at all distances, it might just be to the colt's advantage.

And then he looked at the opening bid.

$25,000.

He blinked, stared, and checked to see if there was a smudge obscuring a fourth zero. There wasn't. "Sarah," he whispered out of the corner of his mouth, "did you see the starting price?"

She grinned. "Starting that low, we should be fine."

Alarm bells were going off in the back of his mind. "Starting at $25,000? For a colt with those bloodlines?" He shook his head. "Did you look at him in the barns?"

The way her eyes lit up should have been a warning. "He's beautiful, Matt. Wait 'til you see him! Big and black, with two white socks in front and a white nose. He's already huge for a yearling-he looks just like Satan does in the old pictures."

"What about his legs?"

"He does have all four of them," she retorted. "I looked, Matt. A little turnout in front, that's all, and he moves well. Yes, I had them trot him on the dirt and the grass. If he's really a huge flop on the track, he'll be just fine for a jumper."

Matt shook his head , earning him a slightly confused and annoyed look from an auctioneer's assistant. It wasn't just the possibility of him being a racing flop. There were other reasons to set such a low asking price for such a well-bred horse, not all of them visible on inspection. Hopeful Farm had a good reputation and he couldn't quite believe that they'd be trying to pass off a sick colt or weak legs. But there had always been rumors about that blood-that Satan had been a demon to train, Black Minx too temperamental for her own good, and the Black himself so wild only a select few could control him. Would that pedigree alone be considered a 'buyer beware?'

The hammer fell and the muscled, Phalaris-type chestnut that had just sold was lead from the ring. A sharp jab in the ribs told him "their" colt was next. Matt turned expectantly toward the entrance of the ring, as did several others in the audience-there was obviously interest in this colt. There was a brief commotion, as the chestnut seemed to balk at the gate, and then Hip Number 401 stepped into the ring. 

Matt caught his breath. 

The colt was big, as Sarah had said-in fact, with the muscle, he looked more like a two-year-old than a yearling. At first he thought the head was coarse, but then he realized it was an optical illusion, created by the white mark that broadened his muzzle and made him look as if he'd dipped his nose in a can of paint. He had a refined head, in fact, perhaps even a bit small for the heavy neck, but he carried himself so well it was a minor flaw, easy to overlook. The white legs in front had another disconcerting effect, making him look almost as if his legs were cut off below the knees. The hindquarters were just a bit higher than the withers, and his tail, thick and full, hung past his hocks, and it was flicking restlessly. The colt had stopped just inside the gate, his head up, the lead pulled taut, and he seemed to be surveying the crowd of bidders as if deciding who was worthy of taking him home.

Matt felt a chill down his spine, but it was not a good feeling. "Sarah, are you sure-"

"Sh!" Another nudge in the ribs. The auctioneer had begun his opening pitch and Sarah was leaning forward, her body taut and her eyes fixed on the black horse, now being lead in small circles, his steps short and springing. The lead shank remained taut, the colt's head in the air, his small, finely-made ears pricked forward. 

Sarah let someone else open the bidding at the rock-bottom price. When the auctioneer asked for thirty-five thousand, she raised a finger and an assistant called the bid. Matt heard the slight murmur in the room as people realized Star Voyager's owners were finally bidding after three days of inaction. There were at least two other bidders, Matt decided, as the price climbed inexorably past one hundred thousand. A look around couldn't confirm who the other bidders were, but he did notice a slight man standing in the back, thin and wiry with the tough look of an ex-jockey. He had a cap pulled well down over faded red hair, but beneath the brim his eyes were intent on the colt being sold. After a minute's looking, Matt recognized him-Hopeful Farm's owner and head trainer, Alec Ramsay. The jockey who'd ridden this colt's predecessors to fame and fortune was watching him go now for a ridiculously low price, his expression unreadable.

The bidding reached $250,000 and slowed. Someone had dropped out. Matt could see Sarah's finger moving with frightening regularity as the climb slowed to five-thousand dollar increments. The colt was still circling restlessly, his thick black tail lashing back and forth, back and forth across his hocks. The finely-made ears were flicking, turning to catch the auctioneer's patter, the calls from the spotters, the rustles and whispers in the audience. 

The price reached $285,000, Sarah's bid, and stalled. The spotters kept scanning the room, the auctioneer rested a moment with his hammer pointing towards the other bidder-Matt could see now it was one of the Arab sheiks and his trainer. They were holding a brief conference, and finally the trainer shook his head firmly "no." They were out. Matt felt another of those cold twinges. They could easily have gone a lot higher. Maybe they simply weren't that interested in this colt, but why not? The auctioneer scanned the crowd a final time and then he let the hammer fall. Sarah grinned gleefully, and he was half-afraid she'd start giggling as she held up their number for the auctioneer to read. The handler turned the black colt and started for the gate. 

It happened so quickly Matt was never sure exactly what he'd seen. The next lot was waiting outside the gate, a bay colt perhaps a hand smaller than their black, and he started forward as the handler lead the black out. Suddenly the lead snapped taut and the black colt was on his haunches, striking out with his forelegs. For a moment Matt thought he was going after the other colt, who had shied and spun away, but then he saw the black's handler stagger and the lead shank fly free. Sarah was halfway out of her seat before he grabbed her arm. There were two other handlers closing on their colt, and he whirled on his haunches, leaping sideways and striking out with his heels, forcing the man he'd knocked aside to duck back to the ground. 

Trying to evade the pursuers now, he charged, keeping the other, still-frightened bay between him and the huamns. But the original handler was back on his feet and had grabbed the lead. The chain tightened across the colt's nose and he plunged to a halt, shaking his head in fury at being restrained. Before he could rethink his flight, a second handler closed in and snapped on another lead. For a moment the black was still, muscles taut beneath the glistening coat, his ears flicking rapidly back and forth. Suddenly a tremor passed through the tense frame and his head dropped. He followed the two handlers obediently out of sight.

Matt released the breath he'd been holding and turned to Sarah. "I know the yearlings can be nervous . . . ."

And to his surprise, she was grinning more broadly than ever. "Just like Star-you remember how she would kick up her heels when I'd pony her. She still does. And did you see the control when he turned on his haunches? If he doesn't make a racer, we might even have a dressage prospect."

The cold twinge settled in his gut and turned into an icy lump. What Matt had just seen had not looked like a youthful display of energy and high spirits. The colt had struck deliberately, with the intention of freeing himself, and in less-confined quarters his evasive tactics might well have succeeded. Sarah was right in saying that their Star liked to play-but the black colt had not been playing. It had been a calculated, malicious attack. He'd not only knocked down the man leading him, the colt had struck out to keep him on the ground while making his bid for freedom. More frightening, perhaps, the colt had shown not only a vicious urge to fight his handlers, but the intelligence to chose his escape route and to know when it was better to cooperate. If that intelligence could be put towards his racing training, he could be a champion. If instead, the colt used it to fight human attempts to curb him . . . .

A movement out of the corner of his eye drew his attention to the back of the room. Alec Ramsay had left his post against the wall and was walking towards the exit where the colt had gone. Matt found himself hoping the trainer would look their way, that he'd see some hint in the older man's face that would tell him this was a fluke, a surprise . . . but Ramsay kept his head down as he walked past, the brim of the cap obscuring his eyes.


	2. Home Sweet Home

Chapter Two

Home Sweet Home

Author's note: Misspelled "Ramsay" in chapter one. That'll teach me to use the back of the movie box...caught it once I got home and got my books. Sorry it's taken a bit to get to chapter two-new job and new computer, but at least now I can save everything on CD-RW. (When it's frelling working. Part of the down time has been waiting for Dell to replace a burnt-out CPU on aforementioned new computer. Now the CD-RW is saving things only erratically. Can't borrow Mum's CD-RW, hers just lost its drivers when they upgraded windows and Dell can't provide a replacement. Next time, dude, I'm getting a ThinkPad.)

  
  


The shadows of early evening were stretching across the road as Matt finally turned onto the long, straight stretch of road to Lost Acres Farms. Central Michigan wasn't known for fall colors; most of the trees in the wood lots that interspersed farm fields were young conifers, but here and there a brilliant splash of orange and gold marked where an oak or maple had slipped in. Matt would have suggested Sarah admire the scenery, but she was curled up in the passenger seat, her head resting against the window in what looked like an impossibly uncomfortable position. It never ceased to amaze him how she could sleep in almost any circumstance-on top of tack trunks at shows, in the dressing room of a trailer, even leaning against the wall of her horse's stall. She'd nodded off somewhere just after the Ohio state line and hadn't moved since.

There was a thudding from the trailer that reverberated through the pickup's body and he glanced in the rearview mirror. Their trailer was a two-horse, high-roofed European model, and he couldn't see the colt through the two small windows, but he had hauled enough horses to know his passenger wasn't happy. Few horses were after almost twelve hours in the trailer, but their new colt hadn't been thrilled with loading in the first place. They'd arrived at Hopeful Farm's stalls at the sale barn two days after the sale, as arranged, to load the colt. Sarah's plan was to take him back to their farm and spend the next six months conditioning him before shipping him to their trainer's barn to prepare for his two-year-old campaign. It was easier (and cheaper) than sending him to a specialist farm for training with other yearlings, and as Sarah had reminded him several times, her methods had worked wonders with Star. He'd been tempted to remind her that she'd had Star since the filly's birth, and the colt was considerably older and much more set in his ways, but Matt knew when to hold his peace with her.

Alec Ramsay had been waiting for them when they arrived, standing at the stall door. The black colt, already in leg wraps for the long trip, was watching them with what Matt would have called a suspicious expression. He noticed that the mane and tail were neatly done up in shipping braids, the last time the colt would wear the black and white colors of Hopeful Farm. 

Ramsey was again wearing the cap pulled down over his faded red hair. Up close, Matt noticed how deeply the lines cut into the older man's face, and how scarred and worn his hands were-a horseman, his appearance said that better than all the record books could have. He watched them get out of the truck and smiled, a bit wearily. 

"You've bought a fine colt, Mr. Olivet, Mrs. Olivet." Ramsey had a quiet, confident voice and a firm handshake. 

"I could see that in the sales ring," Sarah said, returning his handshake enthusiastically. "I can't tell you how excited we are to have a horse with Satan and the Black in his pedigree."

"Yes, especially at such a bargain price," Matt said nonchalantly, earning him a jab in the ribs from Sarah. "I have to admit I was very surprised at the low reserve." Sarah rolled her eyes and went to the stall door. The colt backed away, nostrils flaring and eyes wide. Matt kept his eyes on Hopeful Farm's trainer. "Is there anything in particular we should know?"

Ramsay studied him thoughtfully for a moment. "He's a good colt," Alec repeated, as if he were considering his words carefully. "But he has the Black's blood in him, even if it's on the bottom. You saw him today in the ring." It wasn't a question, but Matt nodded anyway. "He's got the speed, if you can get it out of him." He turned towards Sarah and the stall. "He's a bit nervous, so mind his teeth." The ex-jockey smiled a bit. "I haven't had a chance to try Henry's hot-potato trick on him." Before Matt could ask for an explanation, Alec started towards the stall. "Since all the papers are signed, we might as well get him loaded. He's still a little sleepy, so he probably won't put up too much of a fight."

"I doubt he could be as stubborn as Star. She got it from her dam-Cinnabar still hates getting in trailers." Sarah lifted the lead rope and fleece-covered halter she'd brought. "Shall I change halters, or do you want to do the honors?"

Alec took the shipping halter from her. "I'd better do it. It'll give me a chance to say good-bye." But Matt thought that there was a slightly uneasy look about the trainer. "If you two can get the trailer set up, I'll get him ready."

Sarah obligingly went to the back of their trailer, and Matt followed to help her lower the heavy tailgate ramp. They'd already filled a hay net from the bale they'd brought from the farm-grass mix with timothy and a sprinkling of alfalfa, hopefully not so rich the colt would overeat and colic on the trip home. They'd have a chance to water him at the rest stops along the way. "He looks even better up close, doesn't he?" Sarah enthused as they checked the ramp and opened the two front escape hatches. "He's got fire in his eyes!"

Matt shrugged uneasily. "I don't like that his old owner won't give us a straight answer."

"Matt," she sighed, stopping on the edge of the ramp with her hands her hips, "sometimes you can be such a pessimist."

He stepped around to the side of the ramp and held up his arms. Laughing in spite of herself she put her hands on his shoulders and let him lift her down. "And you can be such an optimist," he countered, keeping his hands on her waist for a moment. "I just don't want you to get hurt."

"We'll be fine," Sarah said. "I've never seen you this worried about a horse!" 

"We've never had a horse like him before, either of us." He turned back to the stall. Ramsay had the colt out, the fleece-lined halter startlingly white against the dark coat. The black regarded them and the trailer with suspicious distrust, and started to dance to the side. A gentle hand on his neck, a few words murmured too low for them to hear, and the colt settled again. 

"I'd better put him on," Alec said, as he brought the colt forward. "He's used to me. Better stand back." The colt lunged forward against the lead shank, and Alec placed a hand on his shoulder. The black hide trembled and the colt was still. Alec waited a moment, and then took a step onto the ramp. Sarah and Matt moved back farther as the colt stepped up onto the ramp with his forelegs. Hooves planted squarely, he stopped, his back legs still on the ground and his lead line taut. Alec waited a moment, standing calmly by the right-hand stall, as the colt stretched his neck out to its full length, snuffling at the unfamiliar trailer. "Usually he won't put up too much of a fight," Alec said, so quietly he might have been speaking only to the colt. "But he has to do it his way, just like all his family."

The colt sniffed again suspiciously, pawing at the ramp. To his left, there was nothing but the ramp's edge, and to the right, there was the rest of the ramp, Alec, and Matt and Sarah, well back to keep from crowding him and causing alarm. The line was now slack between him and Alec, and his ears were pricked forward rather than pinned. The wide nostrils were still flared and the thick, full tail twitched back and forth as if he was considering whether to go forward into the left-hand stall, or back off the ramp completely and force them to start again. Matt had been loading horses since he was old enough to hold a lead, and had seen many behave like their colt was now-they weren't going to fight a huge battle, but they weren't sure they wanted to cooperate, either. At least he didn't seem like the kind who would sooner snap a lead shank than get aboard the trailer. 

With a suddenness that startled even Alec, the colt leapt the rest of the way onto the ramp, landing with his hind legs tucked well under his body. Rocking back on his haunches he half-reared, and Matt was sure he'd go over. Instead he twisted sideways, not towards the clear edge on the left but to the right, the long way round and straight at them! Sarah was already lunging one way and Matt the other as the colt made a huge jump, landing between them and aiming down the shed row. It was sheer luck that the flying lead line was between the colt and Sarah and that she was able to grab it, using his own momentum against him. Setting back against the lead, she dug in her heels and threw the colt off-balance. He wheeled around her and she closed on his head, stopping him mid-plunge. In a pure battle of strength, the colt would have won, but with the added leverage she was able to push him around, back towards the trailer.

To Matt's surprise, and he could see Alec's as well, Sarah was laughing as she lead the colt back. "He certainly has to have things his own way, doesn't he?" she said, bringing him back around to the ramp. The colt hesitated again at the top of the ramp, but this time it was only a brief pause before he trotted up into the trailer. Alec moved quickly, putting up the back bar and hooking the safety catch. Matt reached up through the escape hatch and unhooked the lead line, snapping on the shorter trailer tie. He knew he was being silly, but he could have sworn the colt glared at him at the indignity.

Alec helped Sarah secure the trailer ramp, then turned and offered her a hand. "You've got yourself a good colt there," he said. "A handful, but he does have potential. Satan was a lot like that." He smiled at the memory. "You already have yourself a great mare-I was fortunate enough to see her at the Belmont. How is Star Voyager?"

Sarah beamed like a proud parent. "She's doing quite well, actually. Hopefully she'll be able to race another season, if they don't pack too much weight on her. It's good for racing to have a champion to follow, but not if they give her so much to carry that she breaks down."

Alec nodded. "That was one reason I eventually retired the Black." There was no sadness in his voice as he talked about the great horse. "Henry always used to pitch a fit about the weights, but you know, I think he was proud, in his own way, that we had a horse so great they had to put that much on him." He laughed softly. "Never stopped him from complaining about it. The Black never seemed to notice. But then he was a great horse." He paused, his eyes seeming to fix on a point somewhere in the air between them.

There was a thud and the trailer rocked, startling them all. Sarah laughed. "Sounds like he's ready to go."

Alec, started from his revere, nodded. "Yes, he doesn't like standing around and waiting." He offered his hand again. "It's been a pleasure, Mr. Olivet, Mrs. Olivet." Without waiting to watch them go, he turned and walked down the shed row, his cap pulled low over his eyes.

Sarah didn't wake up until they were turning into the drive at Lost Acres, lifting her head and blinking blearily. "Are we there already?"

"It might seem like already to you," Matt said, guiding the truck around to the gravel lot by the barn. "I'm the one with road hypnosis."

"You could have turned on the radio," she said, stretching and twisting stiff muscles. "I wouldn't have minded."

"Well, you looked kind of cute," Matt said. "I didn't want to disturb you."

"What were you doing watching me instead of the road?" she retorted, then, softening, "Besides, we're married now-you don't have to flirt with me."

"I like to keep my hand in," he teased back. There was another thud from the trailer. "I think our passenger is ready to stretch his legs."

"So'm I," Sarah yawned, opening the door. "After we get him squared away, I'm taking a nice hot bath and going to bed-and don't get any ideas, I mean sleep."

"Wouldn't dream of it," Matt said, stifling a yawn of his own. "Let's get him settled in and worry about unpacking our stuff tomorrow." 

Sarah went around to the front hatch, while Matt dropped the trailer ramp. "Ready?" he asked, standing to one side as he reached for the butt bar behind the trembling black hindquarters. 

"Just a sec." Sarah reached up through the escape hatch, but the colt jerked his head up and away. "I haven't got the lead line on yet. Almost-there!" There was a snick of metal as the lead line clipped to the halter. "I'll get it around his neck and get-look out, he's coming back!"

Matt unhooked the bar and jumped off the ramp as the colt's head shot up and back, snapping the panic-release tie that had held him in the trailer. With another of the powerful leaps he'd demonstrated while loading, he was onto the ramp, turning on his haunches, and he was off, lead line flying behind him. "He's headed for the ride!" Matt said as Sarah bolted around the trailer to join him.

The ride was a mile-and-a-quarter long track with a firmly-packed footing of sand and wood chips, bordered by PVC fencing rather than the more proper stone wall or hedges. It wound along the edge of the swampy woods Sarah insisted was a "wetland" and in a loop around the two large pastures. The stable Matt's grandfather owned in England had something similar, and there as here it was used for flatwork and building endurance. Normally, it was closed off by a gate behind the stable yard, but today the top two bars were lowered. The colt, lead and trailer ties flapping, cleared the bottom rail with a good two feet to spare and took off down the ride. Sarah and Matt, realizing pursuit was more or less futile until he decided to slow down himself, stopped at the gate and watched. The colt was headed down the ride, weaving back and forth across the track, his head in the air, tail streaming behind. 

"Matt, when he gets to the quarter pole, start clocking him." Sarah was leaning against the fence, her eyes fixed on the fleeing horse.

Matt's watch, a Christmas present from Sarah last year, had a stopwatch. Ostensibly it was for timing his Grand Prix rides, but he'd found he used it more for clocking fast quarters at the track. The colt was approaching the far curve, and from there it was a quarter-mile to the next turn. As he passed the fence post, Matt pressed the start button. He pressed it again as the black colt made the far turn, paralleling the main road back towards them.

"What was it?" Sarah was still watching the colt as he stretched out. The white socks were flashing along in a bright blur beneath the dark body. 

Matt stared down at the numbers and blinked. "Well . . . considering it's pretty deep footing . . . and he's still stiff from the trailer . . . ."

Sarah finally tore her eyes off the horse and glared at him. "Matt . . . ."

"Twenty-five. Even."

She didn't say anything for a minute. Then, slowly, she turned back to watch the colt. He was slowing a little, coming around the sharpest turn. The horses in the paddocks were stirring, trotting in circles and watching the new arrival. The colt was kicking out every other stride now, bucking away the kinks of the long trailer ride. "Twenty-five."

"Yeah."

"On a deep track."

"That's right."

"After a twelve-hour trailer ride."

"Mm-hm."

"We may have a racehorse."

Matt didn't say anything to that. The colt's hind legs glanced out again, rattling the fence, and the horses in the paddock spooked away. It was nonsense, but he would swear the colt was looking for a way out. "If we can catch him," he murmured. If Sarah heard, she made no reply.


End file.
